


Caprice

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [31]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Gen, Nipawin (1991-1995)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1994: The '94 Holiday Party at the Nipawin Detachment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caprice

**1994**

"No, sir. You see, they will repaint my cruiser in that ridiculous rainbow scheme they came up with only after they forcibly, bodily remove me from her frame."

Mike Chase snorted a sip of coffee up his nose, then turned away and almost choked to death on it, and even _then_ he couldn't quit laughing.

Turnbull shot him a startled look, Russ rolled his eyes in long-suffering frustration, and Mike held his free hand up, waving 'no, keep going, this is comedy gold!'

The whole debate was because they'd been sent little toy cars in the style of the newest cruisers to give out to the kids for the annual holiday party at the Nipawin Detachment. Mike didn't care much for them himself. Not that the RCMP or General Motors had asked his opinion, but as far as he was concerned, the last good cruiser was the '89 Chevy Caprice and the only paintjob was the blue and white.

At least on the latter half, he had an ally.

Turnbull, apparently both piqued enough and _bored_ enough, had immediately gone out and purchased a slew of '94 Caprice models, repainted and detailed them by hand in his off-hours, and he was now presenting his work to Severn with all of the zealousness of a cult leader. God knew where he found that many of them; he probably had to hit every hobby store between here and Regina.

Mike was ridiculously proud of himself.

"And what are we going to do with the models they sent?" Severn asked, calling upon the wellspring of his mostly infinite patience.

"We could stage a demolition derby in miniature," Mike answered, before Turnbull had a chance to. Turnbull dropped his head and was pretty clearly trying not to laugh, which made it even harder for Mike to hold onto his faux-innocence.

_"Corporal."_

"Come on, Russ, the kids would love it."

"That's _exactly_ the kind of signal I want to send to the community," Severn said, standing up and planting his hands on the desk. "'Us fine, upstanding officers of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police consider it perfectly acceptable to mangle our own vehicles, which your taxes pay for, because we happen to have two officers who are protesting the _paint jobs_ recently introduced...'"

"I'll bet I can get hold of some firecrackers," Mike said, just to see if Russ would steam up even more.

"'...as well as blatantly break the _law_."

"Really, sir," Turnbull said, leaning forward and holding his meticulously detailed model in his palm as though it were some national treasure, "the disposal of a number of badly painted _toys_ isn't quite on par... on par with mangling our own vehicles. While I cannot entirely agree with Corporal Chase's suggestion to _blow them up_ , I do very firmly believe that we should accurately represent ourselves to the community, and therefore, we should be... be honoring the vehicles we _do_ have, which are quite clearly _not_ those toys."

 _See? And I trained him._ Mike chewed down a proud little smirk. Mostly.

Russ was looking morally bewildered. Mike could pretty much hear what was going through his head. He was going, _Why, God? Why, Regina? Why?_

"He's right. And what better way to tick off the citizens of Nipawin than by having their kids bring home models of the new cruisers when you know we won't be getting one for at least another two years, while larger detachments already probably have fleets of them--"

 _"Fords,"_ Turnbull muttered, like it was a curse.

"--which just smacks of favoritism, Russ. Smacks of it. Right across the jaw with a brown leather glove."

Russ stared. Mike knew that look, too, though he was surprised when Russ actually said it: "What _planet_ are you two from?"

Turnbull turned red. If not for the fact that Mike knew it was sincere, he would have thought that it was perfectly timed and executed as a way of making Russ give up the fight and choose a less emotionally fraught battle.

Well, it _was_ perfectly timed, even unintentional.

"I'll send them back," Russ finally said, shaking his head and looking at the ceiling, no doubt calling upon an even more infinite wellspring of patience than his own.

 

Holidays were a pretty big deal in Nipawin. Not that it was all there was to do in the winter -- they had snowmobiling, skiing, dog-sledding, _curling_ , hockey and a slew of other winter activities, but the holidays were the time of lights and cheer, of church dinners or community gatherings, and the Nipawin Detachment made sure to get in on it.

Officially speaking, it was a policy thing. Frankly speaking, it was 'cause this was just as much the home of the officers as it was the citizens, even though the only native of Saskatchewan was Severn himself. Mitch was from the Maritimes, and Mike and Sandy were from Manitoba, and Turnbull -- poor guy -- was from Ontario. Not only that, but practically from _Toronto_. But people didn't hold it against him.

The Detachment building was going to eventually be replaced, but no one foresaw that happening anytime within the next decade or so, despite the studies done that said they needed it. Still, they did their best with what they had. Which meant meeting, greeting, handing out stock phrases about safe holidays and trinkets to go along with candy canes and wearing dress uniforms.

"I hate this thing," Mike muttered, tugging at his collar. "Why are we wearing these, again?"

"Because the public loves it." Severn tipped his stetson to a wave sent his way.

"I'm going to choke to death, Russ."

"Mike, I have something for you to consider..."

"I don't really want to hear this, do I?"

"...the twenty-three year old whines less than you do. What does that tell you?"

Mike thought about it for a long moment, watching said twenty-three year old as he engaged a group of kids, all wide-eyed and enthusiastic. Enviously. Turnbull was in his duty gear, since he was on shift right after the party. "That field training new Mounties is a job that's never done and I have to work on that particular aspect harder."

Severn closed his eyes and sighed. Mike did an internal victory dance.

"Sir?" Speaking of the non-whiny devil. Turnbull had three kids clinging to him, when he made his way over. "I was wondering if I might have permission to... to give the children a short ride in my cruiser. They've been asking."

"If you have their parents' permission," Severn replied, shaking his head. He smiled down at the children. They smiled back up at him, with that look that just about everyone got when they were looking at a Mountie in a dress uniform.

Mike wondered if a discourse about how he was _choking to death_ would disabuse them of that wonder. In fact, he probably should give that discourse. If anyone would have told him when he was that age, looking at the red dress uniform of parading Mounties, he might have been a brilliant businessman, instead of standing here wrapped in a tunic that felt two sizes too small, even when it was the right size.

Turnbull looked like someone just handed him the world's first curling stone; he made a high-pitched noise that Mike had come to associate with autographed pictures of country music stars, bounced on his toes and nodded and beamed. "Yes, sir, I'll make absolutely certain." And then he was tugged away by children who were probably only marginally _less_ enthusiastic than he was.

"See, Russ, that's why he doesn't whine. Because you spoil him. Give in on everything, all the time..." Which wasn't true, but Mike enjoyed any opportunity to get Severn's goat that he could.

"I spoil you, Mike, and you whine anyway. At least he's _grateful_ ," Russ replied, without his polite duty smile ever dropping.

It was tried and true, their method of communication. Mike was thirty-seven, and he was good enough to go just about anywhere he wanted -- he could win his way back into the graces of the Force if he went and taught at Depot for awhile, easily. But in the end, he stayed in Nipawin. He'd met his wife here. He would have had children here; still wanted to, if the fertility stuff got worked out. Part of the reason he stayed, frankly, was _because_ Russ 'spoiled' them.

If by spoiling one meant that he really gave a damn, anyway. Mike had been through more than a few detachments, some much larger, and not a single one of them had the good-natured warmth of this one. It was always the Force everywhere else; what you were allowed to say, and what you were never allowed to say. It was the silent red wall, it was mandatory overtime and tired, budget-conscious commanders, it was working without backup in dangerous situations. The bigger the detachment, the less personal -- some cycled people through too fast to even get to know them. And constables were the grist for the mills.

The RCMP was underfunded and undermanned perpetually. Nipawin was no different. Mandatory overtime and working without backup included.

But Nipawin had Russ, and Russ Severn set the tone. And Mike secretly suspected that Russ was here because he was more interested in taking care of his officers than he was taking care of his superiors. Mike was here because he'd trained a whistleblower. Turnbull was here because he'd been written off as a failure. Sandy and Mitch were both in debatable physical shape and had been sent here because they were barely able to get through their yearly physicals.

Nipawin was just another small-town detachment, the kind that most new Mounties wanted nothing to do with, the kind where you got sent if you weren't special or extraordinary. But Nipawin had Russ. And Russ made them all work mandatory overtime, not just the constables. Russ made it policy that any and every one of them be available for backup at any hour of the day, including himself, unless there were extenuating circumstances. He demanded a lot, but he looked out for them, too.

Which was why Mike was willing to stand here choking to death in his tunic, and Turnbull was showing off his cruiser with a mile-wide grin on his face. Why Sandburg was inside handing out candy canes and safety leaflets. Why Mitchell was coordinating the donations with the local church pantries.

"Yeah, yeah," Mike said, with as much faux-dismissal as he could throw into it, gravel-toned and nonchalant. "Merry Christmas, sir."

"Merry Christmas, Mike," Russ said, grinning.

 

 

"You didn't save one for me?" Mike held his stetson to his heart. "You're heartless, Turnbull."

"I'm sorry, Corporal," Turnbull answered, steeping his tea, looking not nearly contrite enough. "However, I didn't realize you had wanted a miniature version of my _whale_ , as you call it, and the children were considerably more enthusiastic."

Mike leaned against the counter, setting the stetson aside, and crossed his arms over his half-unbuttoned tunic. Party was wrapped up, his shift was almost over, no calls had come in -- people tended to try to behave during the Christmas season, at least -- and that left little to do but be merry. "But a Christmas present would have been nice. See, I got you that head-thing..."

Turnbull looked up as though he could see the fake reindeer antlers he'd put on towards the end of the party, then grinned. "Yes, sir. That being said, I believe you only did that so that you could see me run into door frames with them, so I believe I've already given you what you wanted for Christmas."

Mike scoffed and stood straight and collected his stetson, plunking it back on his head. "I'm heading home. I don't need to take your unfounded accusations about the nature of my presents," he said, straight-faced as he could get.

"Have a good night, sir," Turnbull said, turning back to the counter to lean and sip on his pre-patrol cup of tea. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"Yeah." Mike headed for the door, clucking like a mother hen. "Stay safe out there, rook."

 

**1998**

_Cpl. Chase- She doesn't have the same horsepower, or for that matter, any power. But should they succeed in prying your cold, dead fingers from 414, she is somewhat easier to hold onto. -Cst. Turnbull_

Mike looked at the perfect model of his old cruiser sitting up on his mantle, the now-fading note still tucked into its front seat like it was when he found it sitting on the dash of his personal vehicle, that night of the '94 holiday party.

It felt like a lifetime ago, now.

Maybe it was. He sure felt a lot older now than he did then.

He looked down at the model in his hand, the paint chipped somewhat from years of being played with, passed down to younger siblings, before it ended up in a church sale where he found it earlier today. A little battered, but still sound, even if some of the details had rubbed off.

Two remained distinct: B420 was painted in perfect little block letters on the quarter panels.

Mike smiled, a little sadly, and put the model up next to his own.


End file.
